Poem From Aaron Espy

A Poem from A Brother Firefighter.

Dear Guy Sr.,

It is extremely hard to write a poem for someone Iíve never met. Although your memories of your son Guy Jr. gave me some insight into his life, I still know very little about him or you. I was going to wait to write a poem for you until later when I had gotten to know you and your son better, but I started writing and this is what came about.

If you donít like traditional poems like this (some people call it greeting card verse), I can try writing something in free verse. (Thatís where the poem doesnít rhyme). Youíll notice I used a fictious station nine because I donít know where youíre stationed in Tulsa, or even if you ride an engine or ladder. The poemís beginning is based on the assumption that you are an engine company officer.

If you donít like the poem, donít feel bad about it, or feel like you have to tell me you like it. Iíve written some truly good poems, and some that belong in the trash can, and many that fall in between. The danger in writing a poem for someone so special to someone else, like Guy Jr. is to you, is that the poem will not be a good one. Then on top of all the pain you carry, now you have someone whoís made a clumsy attempt to say something nice about your son and failed miserably.

If you like the poem, let me know. If you donít, itís okay to let me know that too. I can try something different if youíd like, or we can just skip it all together. In any case, donít be a stranger to my internet address. If you need someone to talk to, send me an email. I donít know your pain firsthand, but it sounds like we share a common faith and a common brotherhood in the fire service.

Hang in there, brother

Aaron Espy

Green Grass Memory

A false alarm, weíre headed home,
the engineer turns right,
and drives the pride of station 9
through eveningís falling night.
We pass the streets of modest homes,
the cars parked in their drives,
And every time I see their lawns,
my memory of you thrives.
I see you everywhere I go
thereís no place I can turn,
Thereís not an evening dusk descending
where your memory does not burn.

You were a perfect gift from God,
when I was yet a boy.
You were my firstborn, handsome son,
a fatherís fullest joy.
From toddler to a budding star,
my National leager to be,
lefthander with a rifle arm
professional of my dreams.
The raucous crowd derailed you son,
they led you far astray,
but then you found the Lord
and headed down His narrow way.

I wish that He could tell me why
he had to take you home;
Why I can only see your face
in a tearstained picture frame.
Someday, somewhere in Godís beyond
Iíll see you once again,
and then Iíll hear the final answer
to this terrible pain.
Yet through these tears weíll make it, son,
Your sister, mom and me.
I know thatís how youíd want it-
for weíre still a family.

(Firehouse poetry for Guy Rutherford, Sr.
In memory of His son, Guy Daniel Rutherford, Jr.)

Aaron Espy

Most recent revision was July 31, 1996
Copyright & copy; Guy Ruther4d,1996